


Until the Soil

by RosemarysBabysitter (TashaElizabeth)



Series: Goretober Prompts [9]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Gardens & Gardening, Other, Plants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 11:45:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12342057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TashaElizabeth/pseuds/RosemarysBabysitter
Summary: Goretober Prompt: Plant Growth. Although this is a goretober prompt it does not contain any gore.





	Until the Soil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UkiTheMaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UkiTheMaid/gifts).



_Aurum Pulvis_ , of the Rhododendron family, also called the Dustin Rose. Select specimens can grow to tremendous size, well over six feet. They are strikingly colored in patterns of gold and black and have a lush, indulgent quality with soft petals and striking scent. They boast several modified leaves and petals which serve to attract animals and bugs to its pollen. Some of these resemble soft, fine, very blond hair around the central pistil. Other’s function as vines. Still more take on the shapes and planes of a human, or near human, face. Numerous smaller florets and flowered vines branch out from the primary flower. When mature, it produces an abundance of very sweet nectar

It is also, rarely, sentient.  
-  
He has managed the garden since taking control of the funeral home. He grows many white and yellow flowers, soft colors, subtle greenery. His arrangements dot the inside. The reception area. The viewing rooms. The chapel. There’s even one in the morgue, on his desk. That one is just for him.

There is something still and calming about the garden. Life continues, despite death, despite pain. He likes to go to the garden at night. All of his favorite flowers are night blooming and he likes to see the moonlight on the open blossoms. The grass looks black beneath his boots. He waters and prunes them in the still night air and sits down on a bench beneath the arbor to admire his work.

He waits to see the Goldust open.

There is a patch behind the shed where nothing grows and the earth is piled with mounds he has dug. He doesn’t think about it.

After a quarter of an hour, when the full moon is high overhead, the Goldust quivers and shakes, opening its out leaves with a slow, sensual hiss.

“Good evening,” he rumbles. He has always appreciated that the flowers do not flinch from his voice. If anything, it seems to make the Goldust unfurl more quickly, the outside petals coming down and revealing the inner figure, the person hidden inside the glamour. 

He brings the can from the side of the shed and carefully sprinkles water on the giant plant. There is plant food too, powders and potions to scatter around the plant’s base. When the earth is properly moist and abluted, he pulls a soft cloth from his back pocket and wipes grit and grime from the flower’s leaves.

The Goldust seems to stretch toward him. It’s tendrils slither slowly across the ground, curl themselves around his feet. 

He can’t bring himself to disturb the Goldust, not to prune or pinch back or cut for arrangements.

While he watching and rearranging the lower leaves, spreading them to get more sunlight during the day, a vine, peppered on alternating sides with collections of petals, comes drifting out from the center of the plant. It reaches toward him to its full length before opening. Falling to his knees, he buries his face in the open florette. The pollen streaks golden glitter on his sallow face.


End file.
